My body sweats like a cornered animal–
one in full knowledge of its doom.
Are you mocking me from up there?
Maybe you know, I’m not supposed to be here anymore.
There is a need to escape.
Cross the land bridge before it sinks into oblivion–
like the cornered animal with its inedible bones.
Nothing of value produced, save a pair of usable offspring, one must not appear completely heartless.
I do thank you for calming me this evening.
The wine bottle has poured dry and empty.
Closets are bulging at the seams with meaningless feathers.
The single-bulb, reading lamp is casting shadows longer than my pen.
Whatever my scrawl is this time of night, it is difficult to interpret.
And you, up there mocking me–
allowing me to fantasize over hope and comfort and dreams.
In denial you are, the sureness of a life’s work–
round and round and dumbly satisfied.
Well, how does this move you;
Your starburst shadow against the ceiling, long and lean–spinning, always spinning–
begs for mercy and a final escape it will never realize.

yesterday, I had the good fortune to be reminded of something so sweet
it permitted me almost complete peace with the world
and entire happiness with planet people
as I watched with anxious mom eyes, young men and a few women too–
my son among this intense leaping group
willingly get tossed about sprawling mats and body slammed through practiced experience
I escaped a few moments for coffee

there in a deep fluorescent hallway
away from the hearty stewing odors of an enclosed winter gym
a little blonde tyke, resplendent in cherubic pink cheeks and wild child whimsy
his laughter and stubby legged runs–
the penguin-like waddles of a boy not yet near man territory
tearing up and down the checkered oatmeal tile, he flew on socked wings
I, trying to stifle a grin
(honestly, more for the creases now carving into my retreating lip flesh)
simply could not stop smiling, beaming in fact at this whirling dervish
and then he, who lost a fierce hallway sprint to a taller little girl, in their run for the shoeless roses
proclaimed to any and all observers (a line I wish I could take credit for)
“she made her socks run faster than mine”

in this morning’s paper
an article printed on the closing (after 146 years) of, “The Greatest Show on Earth”
this media headline is incorrect, perhaps even yellow in its presentation
yesterday I watched The Greatest Show on Earth in a small high school hallway
and here–the most entertaining truth
the little socked boy’s name was
Gabrieland for the record, I am joyous for the animals, large and small who should never dwell beneath any big top other than sky

there is a case of beer bottles in my garage. it was a holiday gift. twelve special beers. the best of the best. is what the printed words say right there on the macho pretty box. the best of the best. more than the fantastic four or the magnificent seven–it’s the sublime twelve. I stare down at this charismatic hops box. twelve superb necks holding twelve superior brews. hell, what would I say if I were just one beer. this is twelve. twelve miraculous times someone mixed and poured perfect.

hmm. I said I was going to start this year with writing honestly. I’d have to think long and deep, as long and as deep as those amber necks reaching down to those chilly ales swallowed to warm the senses.

truth is one thing in the flesh, it’s a whole other liquid when brewed into words. let me start chugging here:

I don’t know where my words come from. this unnerves me a bit. it’s like arriving at a familiar place with no recollection of the ride. I don’t know what is going to happen most times I plan to write so I can never really plan anything longer than a short piece. I managed to pen ten manuscripts long ago when my brain was less fragmented, all fantasy blended with some sci-fi, all for the tween market. I don’t think my liquefied brain could pour adult long write. that would be a real challenge for me in my present glass state, though I’ve visited over thirty US states. I am not worldly. Other then crossing into Tijuana on foot back in the ’80s, and staring at bugs in Montreal’s Insectarium, my world travel case is sticker light. I am George Bailey-never left Bedford Falls.

It has taken me until now to learn how to lower the brewery simmer button. no more unnecessary boiling. life’s to short for bubbling over the vat.

if I were beer, I’d belong in a wine bottle. whatever the hell that means.